His Family's Keeper
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: January 1992. It's John's first hunt since Sam has learned the truth. Dean takes it upon himself to comfort and reassure his younger brother while John's away. When he comes home late and badly injured, Dean pulls a double shift and takes care of his father, too. Pre-series. Weechesters.
1. Chapter 1

**His Family's Keeper**

**by kellyofsmeg**

**Summary: January 1992. It's John's first hunt since Sam has learned the truth. Dean takes it upon himself to comfort and reassure his younger brother while John's away. When he comes home late and badly injured, Dean pulls a double shift and takes care of his father, too. Pre-series. Weechesters. **

_"You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once" -John Winchester, 2x01, _"In My Time of Dying."

...

Eight-year-old Sam Winchester was kneeling on a chair by the motel window, poking his head between the pleated maroon curtains and watching the street. His nose and palms were pressed up against the chilled glass, staring out into the crisp and clear January night, lighter than normal under the glow of the full moon. Sam counted the passing cars, though none of them were the car he was hoping to see.

"When will Dad be home?" Sam asked his brother for the umpteenth time.

"Soon," Dean responded from his spot on the queen-sized bed, his eyes flickering from the television set to his little brother, camped out in front of the window. He patted a spot on the mattress beside him and said, "Come watch TV, Sammy. It'll distract you."

"He was supposed to be back by now," bemoaned Sam, ignoring his older brother and checking his watch. "He said he'd be here by eight o'clock and it's almost eight-thirty now!"

Dean sat up straighter, cursing the day Sam ever learned how to tell time. He'd been giving Dean updates every five minutes for the last hour. "No, Sam. Dad said he'd be back sometime tonight, and he will be. _You're _the one who said eight."

"And he said he would be back by eight," said Sam.

"No, he said he'd try," said Dean flatly. "There's a difference."

Sam picked up the receiver on the table phone and began to dial a number. "What're you doing?" asked Dean, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up.

"I'm calling Pastor Jim," said Sam as he listened to the sound of the phone ringing through the ear piece. "Dad said to call him if he's late."

"No, Sammy," said Dean, wrestling the phone away from Sam's ear and setting it back in the cradle. "Dad said to call Bobby or Pastor Jim if wasn't back by _morning_. Sometimes these things just take longer than Dad thinks they will, and it's not his fault. It's not like this is the first time he's ever been late. Well, late by _your _standards."

"Yeah, but this is the first time I know what Dad's actually _doing," _Sam pointed out. "He's hunting a _monster, _Dean—it's dangerous!"

"Maybe for your average Joe-know-nothing, but Dad's an expert," said Dean confidently. "This is all new to you, Sam, but Dad's been doing this since you were in diapers. He knows his stuff. He's the best."

Sam didn't appreciate the reminder that his father and brother had kept him in the dark about his Dad's "job" and their nomadic lifestyle right up until last month. This was the first time his Dad had left him and Dean that truly worried Sam; now he knew his Dad wasn't going out to sell encyclopedias or fountain pens or whatever he currently claimed to be peddling; he was hunting. And not quail or deer—a monster. Something that fought back. And Sam's imagination made the monster his Dad was hunting out to be the most gruesome and terrifying monster imaginable, all claws and fangs, fire-breathing and ravenous and bloodthirsty—the stuff of nightmares.

"What kind of monster is Dad fighting?" Sam asked fretfully, hoping Dean's answer wouldn't be able to top the horrors his mind had conjured up.

"I told you—a shapeshifter." At Sam's blank expression, Dean said, "No one knows what they actually look like, but they can take the shape of anyone. A lot of the time they'll take the form of someone in a family to get close to them, and then..." he trailed off, not able to think of age-appropriate words to explain what a shapeshifter was capable of doing to its victims, especially not wanting to get too graphic since their father was currently hunting one. Sam didn't need to be anymore worried than he already was.

"Could it turn into one of us?" asked Sam anxiously.

"I guess," Dean shrugged. Seeing Sam's stricken expression, Dean rushed on, "I mean, no. I'm pretty sure it has to know what we look like to turn into us."

"But what if the shapeshifter steals Dad's wallet and sees a picture of us—or what if it can read his mind and see what we look like? Then it can turn into one of us!"

Dean laughed to assuage his brother's fears and said, "Dad wouldn't fall for something like that—he'd know it's not really us, 'cos he knows we're here. Plus, it isn't like this is the first time he's hunted a shifter."

"It isn't?" said Sam, sounding partially relieved.

Dean shook his head. "When I was four, I walked outside just in time to see Dad shoot a Shifter in the head. I thought he'd killed a man at first...it looked human. I didn't know it was a monster till later."

"So Dad can just shoot it?" Sam mimed cocking and pulling a trigger.

"Yeah—with a silver bullet. Silver burns them. I'm pretty sure you can also take off their heads. I'd have to ask Dad. They're real easy to kill compared to some things."

Sam's eyes were downcast, mulling over everything his older brother had just told him. It felt strange to Dean, being able to finally speak freely to his little brother about the supernatural world. It was also oddly therapeutic to talk to another person about the horrific truths with on a daily basis. He just wished that person he was offloading his weighty knowledge on didn't have to be his baby brother, whom he'd sheltered from the truth about their Dad's job for all those years. But that innocence was gone now, and it was time for Sam to learn everything he could to protect himself, too.

"You okay, Sammy?" asked Dean carefully; a regular question he posed now that he was constantly assessing how Sam was dealing with everything.

Sam raised his eyes, which were once again wide and fearful. "Dean...if a shifter's easy to kill, why isn't Dad back yet?"

_Crap, _Dean thought, _I did say they're easy to kill, didn't I? Easy if they'd just stop changing their face for five minutes and didn't have super-human agility and strength..._"I don't know, Sammy," said Dean, throwing his arms up. "Maybe it's giving Dad the run-around. Or maybe he's just stuck in traffic."

"I thought Dad said he wouldn't be far away," Sam frowned. "He said he was keeping close—an hour and a half's drive. That's what he said. I've spent enough time in a car to know that there's not that much traffic this time of night."

Dean groaned, once again finding himself thinking that his little brother had gotten too smart for his own good. "There is on a Friday night, Sammy. Shapeshifters can be hard to track, alright? Maybe he's just having trouble trying to gank it before it switches it's face again."

"Or maybe he's hurt," said Sam. His face contorted. "Or dead..."

"He's not dead," said Dean with forced calm, thinking back to the last time Sam had expressed this fear. Christmas Eve. The night he'd told Sam the truth. If Sam hadn't asked so many questions, if he hadn't opened his mouth, Sam would still be innocent. Dean felt his temper flare up at the thought. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists at his side. "I told you never to say that again."

"But he could be, Dean!" Sam argued, "We have no way to call Dad. He could be dead and we'd never know where he is. And then people will realize we're all alone in here, and someone will come and take us away—"

Dean had crossed the room in three strides and was now gripping Sam by the shoulders, trying to shake him out of his hysteria. "Sammy, that's not gonna hap—"

Sam shouted shrilly over Dean, almost hyperventilating. "—and they'll make us go to separate homes with strangers and we'll never see each other again—"

"Stop it, Sammy! Shut up! Just stop talking!" Dean shouted, gripping Sam's shoulders tightly. "Dad would NEVER let that happen to us."

"But if he's dead..."

"Dad's not _dead_!He's the best hunter there is. Nothing can kill him, do you hear me? Nothing!" Dean pushed off Sam's chair, turning away from him and wiping his hand over his face, feeling much older than his twelve, almost thirteen years. "It's time for you to go to bed, Sammy."

"But Dean—"

"Now!" Dean snapped. Seeing his brother's hurt expression and trembling lip, he instantly felt terrible for his outburst and moved forward to hug Sam. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, feeling his brother's chin rest on his shoulder as his arms wrapped tightly around him. "Everything's gonna be alright. I promise. Dad's fine—he always is. He'll be back soon. You'll see."

Sam nodded, uncontrollable tears streaming down his face and spilling onto Dean's shoulder. "You can wait up for him with me, if you want," Dean offered, pulling back. "Would you like that, squirt?"

Sam wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, nodding again. "Alright, c'mon," Dean said, helping Sam to his feet and guiding him over to the bed. His brother was already in his pajamas, and had brushed his teeth, so he'd be set if he did fall asleep. Dean and Sam both rested their backs against the headboard and watched re-runs of _MacGyver._

Nine o'clock came, and Dean watched his brother for signs of sleepiness, but Sam seemed determined not to fall asleep until their father returned and he saw that he was alive and well with his own two eyes. Dean noticed that Sam was jiggling his left foot, making a conscious motion to keep himself awake.

"It's okay to fall asleep, Sam," said Dean quietly, "Even if you miss Dad coming in tonight, you can still see him in the morning."

"I'm not tired," Sam lied, blinking several times against his drooping eyelids.

"Suit yourself," Dean sighed, knowing that if his brother stayed up much longer, it would be a very cranky Sam who greeted their Dad in the morning. Dean didn't have the heart to tell Sam, but he didn't expect their father to return until midnight, at the didn't want to give Sam that uncertain target to stay awake until—was hoping he'd just drift off now...

Around nine-thirty, Sam kept going into microsleep and jerking awake. "You can't run from the Sandman forever, Sammy!" Dean called as Sam went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. That did the trick for awhile, allowing Sam another half hour of wakefulness. Dean loved to stay up late, something his Dad had made a habit out of—writing in his journal, researching, pouring over maps and case files. If it wasn't a school night, Dad would let Dean stay up late and watch _Star Trek _reruns with him. Some nights Dean pretended to be asleep. That's how he knew that a lot of the time his Dad didn't sleep at all, but instead would sit up all night and watch over him and Sam as they slept, like he was afraid something was going to get them, even though he salted the doors and windows and every protective measure known to hunters.

At a quarter past ten, Sam was tired and emotional, as always happened to him he was over-tired. "When..." he sniffed, his chin drooping onto his chest, "...will...Dad..."

"Anytime now," Dean said, hoping he was right. He switched off the TV, as Sammy was no longer watching it, and picked up a _Hardy Boys _book from the bedside table, reading aloud to his brother in hopes that he would fall asleep.

Sam's body began to slump over more and more as Dean read. Finally he collapsed into Dean's side, head on his brother's shoulder, fast asleep. Dean froze with the book poised in his hands, waiting to make sure his brother was soundly asleep. When Sam began to snore lightly, Dean gently eased him down onto the pillows before he started to drool, pulling the covers up over him.

"Dad...?" Sam murmured in his sleep, sounding distressed and reaching out his arms.

"Shhhh," Dean soothed, easing Sam's arms back down and tucking in the blankets around him. He set the book back on the nightstand. Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's hair like their Dad always did when he tucked him in, and thought he saw Sam give a small, sleepy smile. Content that Sam was sleeping at least somewhat peacefully, Dean moved over to the window, taking the spot Sam had previously occupied. He raised his hand to hold back the curtains and peered outside, watching and listening for the familiar roar of the Impala's engine and the glow of its headlights as it turned into the motel parking lot.

Dean waited. And waited...and waited. Pretty soon, his eyelids began to feel heavy, but he was determined not to fall asleep. Not wanting to turn the TV back on and risk the noise and light waking up Sam, he picked up one of his Dad's newspapers and began to read the comics and sports pages by the light of the table lamp. Then he skimmed articles and obituaries, looking for anything that might be a case, imagining his Dad's face if he found something worth checking out, hoping it would earn him an "Atta boy" or some gesture of affection—a clap on the shoulder, his Dad ruffling his hair, or just giving him that look that said, "You've done good, son." He lived for those moments.

Dean watched midnight come and go, and still his father hadn't returned and he hadn't found any strange articles that weren't already circled in Sharpie, or circled and then x'ed out. Dean tried not to let himself worry too much; his Dad had returned from a hunt later than this countless times before, sometimes not until the crack of dawn. But whenever he was able to, he would call to let him know he was running late. Dean began to split his watch between the window and the telephone.

Dean fought off sleep for as long as he could, using all the same tricks that he'd seen Sam employ—jiggling his foot, splashing water on his face, trying to name all the states in alphabetical order—but finally Dean succumbed, slouching over the table, his cheek pressed over some newsprint, one arm dangling limply at his side.

Around three AM, Dean jolted awake when he heard a scratching at the door, and the faintest, gentlest of knocks—their secret knock. Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

_Dad's home._

...

TBC

AN: I've noticed I'm accumulating quite a few stories with the word "family" in the title. Well, family IS very important to the Winchesters...

The incident Dean is referring to where John shoots a shapeshifter in the head is from _John Winchester's Journal, _where they had been staying at the Roadhouse and John and H realized that their hunting companion, Ichi, was gone and a shifter was in its place. H yelled at John to shoot it, and he did-it was his first monster kill. Unfortunately, it was the same moment when Dean had wandered outside to look for his Dad... :(

**I would ****_really _****like to have a beta for my next chapter**. One reason I put off posting this story for so long was because there's some basic medical procedures/first aid in the next chapter and I want to be as accurate as possible, which is frustrating given that the websites I've researched rarely ever agree on everything. **SO, if you have read this, are in the medical profession or just know more than a thing or two and would like to beta fic my for accuracy, please PM me :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: This chapter contains depictions of medical procedures that might make some squeamish. I tried not to be **too** graphic, but I'm fascinated by medicine and describing it, I guess... ;)

…_._

_Dad's home._

Breathing a massive sigh of relief, Dean leapt to his feet, all traces of sleepiness gone. He rushed to the door, unlocking it and sliding back the deadbolt. The second the door was open, a gust of cold winter air blew in and John collapsed into the frame for support, and he was a sight to behold: caked head to toe in dirt and blood, his clothes shredded. He was leaning heavily on one leg, and there was a gash that ran from his right eyebrow down to his cheekbone, heavy bruising marring his rugged features.

"Dad!" Dean gasped, his father's appearance easily being in the top three of his most hellish post-hunt looks. All he could do was stare in horror, wondering if his Dad had encountered a grizzly whilst hunting the shifter. "You look terrible..."

"'M fine, kiddo," John said thickly, rolling up his sleeve and showing his forearm. He pulled a silver knife out of his pocket, making a horizontal slash across his skin, which instantly began to trickle fresh blood. "And it's really me. Even if I knew the knock, you've gotta check when I've been hunting a shifter, Dean. You can never be too safe, you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir," said Dean, stepping aside to let his father in. John stumbled over the threshold. He dropped his duffel bag to the floor and leaned against the table for support. Casting a worried glance over his shoulder, Dean shut the door behind him, locking and bolting it again.

"You boys had dinner?"

"Yeah, Dad. We made those microwave burrito things," Dean answered.

"Finished your homework?"

"Yeah—what happened, Dad?" he asked in a hushed whisper, hovering at John's side and gripping his arm.

"Is Sammy asleep?" John said hoarsely back, seemingly oblivious to Dean's question or just avoiding answering him.

"Yeah, he tried to wait up for you..."

John extracted himself from Dean and crossed the room with disoriented, haphazard steps, dragging one of his legs behind him in a visible limp. He was moving stiffly and gingerly, as was not uncommon for him after a hunt—but something still wasn't quite right. Dean could sense it. His father seemed extra unstable...

Justifiably concerned, Dean trailed along behind his father over to where Sam was sleeping. He watched as John bent over the bed, holding his side with one hand and gently raking his fingers through Sam's hair with the other. "Sorry I'm late, Sammy," he heard his Dad whisper, and when John straightened up again he nearly fell over backwards.

Dean was there to catch and steady him, nearly collapsing under the weight of the much-larger man. John put his arm around Dean and righted himself, swaying where he stood, leaning heavily against his son. It crossed Dean's mind that his father might be intoxicated, but he didn't catch so much as a whiff of alcohol on him—just blood, sweat, dirt and smoke from incinerating monster corpses—typical hunter smells.

"Are you sure you're okay, Dad?" Dean said worriedly. It was impossible not to notice the deathly cold, clammy feel of the hand on the back of his neck, and he had a feeling that it wasn't just from the chilled air outside.

"Yeah, son. Just need to get...cleaned up..." John turned away from Dean as he said this, walking unsteadily towards the bathroom. He went inside, fumbled for the light switch, and shut the door behind him. Dean looked from the closed door to Sam, asleep on the bed, and wondered what to do. If there _was _something wrong with his Dad, he knew he'd be reluctant to admit it. His father was the most stubborn man he knew. He had always been determined, whenever he could prevent it, from letting him (and especially Sam, who up until last month believed their father was a traveling salesman) see when he was weak or vulnerable from a hunt gone bad. It was important to John Winchester for his sons to have absolute faith in him; that nothing could touch him. But Dean knew his father better than anyone, and he could tell how much he was hurting.

Inside the bathroom, John leaned against the off-white marble sink and peered into the mirror, where a pale, haggard face stared hardly back at him through blackened eyes. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face, washing off the grime and dried blood. He dried off and examined the gash on the side of his face, shaped curiously like a cross, where he'd been bottled in the face by a shifter. He touched it, smarting at the sting and imagining the scar it was likely to leave. Still, he knew he was lucky—if the shifter had aimed the broken bottle half an inch to the left, he could easily have lost his eye.

John looked down at himself, vaguely registering his alarming appearance under the bright lights, his bloodied clothes that were beyond mending. He kicked off his boots, felt his back sear with fresh pain as he shrugged off his shredded ridge parka, agonizingly peeled off his bloodied and torn t-shirt, and stripped out of his ruined jeans. With each article of clothing he removed, John was able to see more of the damage to his body, hazily connecting his disjointed, addled feeling to how much he had bled, both internally and externally. He was no doctor, but he'd seen enough to diagnose that he was likely experiencing Class II hemorrhaging and all the side effects that went along with it. Standing there in his socks, boxers and dog tags, John felt like the room was spinning and he held onto the edge of the sink to steady himself, despising how weak he felt. He was a Marine. He was stronger than this. A few little scratches were nothing to have near fainting spells over...

The hunter bowed his head over the sink, his heart racing as his breath came in short, rapid gasps. He twisted to reach for a towel off the rack, letting out an involuntary groan of pain as his bruised and cracked ribs violently protested the movement.

John cursed himself for not bringing his field medic kit with him into the bathroom; he didn't want to scare Dean by going out to retrieve it looking so alarmingly battered, and he was positive he was going to finally pass out from the pain and blood loss if he didn't do something to treat himself soon. He wasn't thinking straight—he'd left his bag by the door instead of taking it with him. As he was considering the painful option of trying to clothe himself again to retrieve it, he heard a soft knock at the door and Dean's voice. "Dad? Can I come in?"

John grunted in response, reasoning that he really had no other option at this point but to let Dean see him. Dean opened the door by degrees, poking his head in. His jaw dropped at the sight of his father—his deathly pale tattooed skin, nearly every inch bloodstained or already showing colorful signs of heavy bruising. Most of his back was cut to ribbons, a laceration on his shin was split along the thin skin and exposing his tibia, and the cut on his face looked even worse under the bright bathroom lights. Worst of all was the slouched, guarded way John was standing, as if ashamed for his son to see that he wasn't invincible, after all.

"Dad..." Dean said, his eyes wide and fearful as Sam's had been earlier when he had been afraid that their father was badly hurt or worse; a fear Dean now hated to admit may have been justified. "You look..."

"Like hell, I know," John hissed in pain, doubling over the sink. He realized that Dean had had the foresight to bring his first aid and field medic kits in with him. Maybe his entrance hadn't been as subtle or graceful as he'd hoped. "Come in and close the door. I don't want Sammy seeing..."

Dean did as he was told, though he continued to stare at his father. His beaten, torn and bruised body was terrible to behold, and yet he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from his battered hero. "Dad," he choked out, setting the kits on the bathroom counter. "Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

"The hospital?" John repeated, shaking his head. "We're pretty much in the sticks, Dean. This is the only motel for miles, and the nearest hospital was three hours in the opposite direction. I was lucky to even be able to drive my ass here."

Dean considered the problem and then brightened. "I can take you to the hospital!" he eagerly volunteered. "I know how to drive. All you've gotta do is give me directions."

"Dean, you are not driving me to the hospital. You're twelve years old—"

"Almost thirteen!"

"I'm sure if we got pulled over the cop would find it a huge relief to know you're twelve _almost _thirteen," said John wryly. "I appreciate the offer, son, but it's not happening."

"Then let me help you get fixed up," Dean insisted.

"Dean, I told you. I'm fine," said John, knowing his son was far too smart not to see through that lie. Plus, he had eyes, for one thing. Eyes that fell to the discarded clothing on the floor, saturated with blood and turning carmine-colored.

"Is all that blood yours?" Dean asked pointedly.

"Most of it," said John. "But don't worry. I'll make new blood. Always do. Don't worry about me, son. I've patched myself up more times than I can count."

"Dad, you need help," Dean stated, a note of pleading in his voice this time.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Dean," said John dismissively. He could tell from Dean's dubious expression that he wasn't buying it. Relenting, John said, "Look, I probably would've spent five hours in the E.R just waiting to be seen—do you know how crazy those places are on a full moon? Not to mention all our credit cards are maxed out. Then I'd have to come up with a story for why I look like this...I just wanted to get back to you and Sammy, and take my chances stitching myself up."

Despite his Dad's first semi-valid excuses, Dean wished he had just sought medical attention; or at least found a way to call 911 if he didn't think he could make the drive. He and Sammy could have waited. Their Dad could have called them from the hospital to let Dean know what had happened, and he would come up with a cover story for why their Dad was running late so Sam wouldn't worry, like he done countless times before. But now...

"You've shown me basic first aid and some other stuff. Why teach me unless you knew I could help you someday?"

"No, Dean," said John heavily, closing his eyes as another wave of light-headedness washed over him. "It's the middle of the night...you should be in bed."

"I'm not tired. You need me, Dad," he stated, noting how his father had to cling to the sink to remain upright. "You can't patch yourself up right now, and you know it." Upon closer inspection, Dean flinched when he saw shards of glass protruding from the wounds on his back. "I mean, how do you plan on getting that glass out, for one thing? You can't reach, but I can—"

Bull-headed as ever, John said firmly, "_No, _Dean. I can't ask you to do that. Go to bed."

Dean held his ground. "No, Sir."

"What was that?" John demanded as he narrowed his eyes at Dean, surprised at his relentlessly obedient son's challenge to his authority; Dean _never_ contradicted a direct order.

"I said no," Dean repeated with more confidence than he knew he possessed. "And I'm not trying to be disrespectful, Dad. Remember that story you told me, about the one time you disobeyed your Sergeant's orders? He was hurt and told you to leave him behind, but you didn't. You ignored his order, and you ended up saving his life. Well, I'm making that same call."

"That was war, son—no man left behind. Sgt. Dunn had half his limbs blown off. This is different. I'm not dying, Dean. I've just got a few scratches."

"But Dad—"

"Thanks for the offer, kiddo," John spoke over him, digging through his first aid kit for something to take an edge off his all-encompassing pain. He had a high pain threshold and located a mostly full bottle of prescription painkillers from Doc Roberts, a man John was truly surprised hadn't lost his medical license yet for malpractice. "But I can take care of this by myself."

Dean wasn't going to take no for an answer. Not this time. He knew his Dad was wrong; he did need his help. He always did, and Dean was glad to do it. He was going to override an order for the good of his father. If he didn't botch the job, his Dad might even thank him later.

"Dad, I can do this. Just tell me what I need to do," said Dean earnestly. "I'll do whatever you say. Look—I can help!"

John looked up, pills in hand, and found Dean had had vanished. A split second later he was back, filling a cup with water at the bathroom sink and handing it to him to wash the pills down with.

"Thanks," said John, accepting the glass of water. Dean supervised as he downed the pills along with the entire glass of water. John filled up the glass again and chugged it down, only now realizing how thirsty he was.

"So...where should we start?" Dean asked, hopeful that he'd proven his usefulness and his Dad would now be onboard with him being his assistant.

John stared Dean down, but he could tell from his son's determined stance that he wasn't going to back down this time. John hated admitting when he was wrong, but maybe he was this time. Maybe Dean was mature enough to help him now. He could barely stand upright without aid, could hardly even breathe without excruciating pain...and Dean was right. There was no way he could tend to his external wounds without aid—especially the injuries on his upper back and shin. He wasn't exactly flexible, even when his ribs weren't cracked. If he was entirely truthful, John would admit that he'd worried on the way home over how he'd even _reach_ his wounds to treat them. Which led John to the other thing he hated as much as admitting he was wrong: admitting when he was beat to hell and needed help.

"Fine," he said gruffly, trying to think of which injury had the highest priority. He had already taken the liberty of giving himself a tetanus shot (the supplies also provided by Doc Roberts) after tearing his shin open, the only procedure he felt comfortable enough performing with such dismal lighting as the overhead light in the Impala. John sighed in defeat. "Let's start with my leg."

"Okay," Dean eagerly brushed past him and turned on the tap in the bathtub. A jet of cold water streamed out through the faucet head. He looked over to his Dad, still smiling triumphantly over his small victory. "We've got to wash it out first, right, Dad?"

"Right," John grunted, hobbling with Dean's guiding hands and sitting on the edge of the tub. Since his cracked ribs wouldn't allow him to bend forward, Dean pulled off his socks and John placed his bare feet in the tub. Dean took a wash cloth and stuck it under the tap, soaking it thoroughly before swabbing it over the cut on John's leg, wringing it out and dripping water into the wound, washing away all the dirt and dried blood. It stung like the worst shaving nick, spread out over six inches. But John didn't show any outward signs of pain, not wanting Dean to worry.

When he was finished and all the murky water had washed down the drain, Dean turned off the tap and asked, "So do we use rubbing alcohol now, or—?"

"No," said John immediately, knowing the burning from rubbing alcohol was from it killing dead tissue as well as healthy tissue, but he still used it as a last resort sometimes. "No, that should be good. Now wash your hands, bring me the first aid bag and thread the needle in the suture kit. You remember how I showed you?"

"Yes, Sir," said Dean, immediately going about his father's instructions. Having given Dean the more menial tasks, John went about the unpleasant ones. John located a pair of surgical scissors, wiping them down with rubbing alcohol to sanitize them. He brought his knee up to his chest and took a sharp breath in anticipation of the pain as he cut away the first piece of jagged, damaged tissue in order to make a clean suture, lamenting the fact that he was out of any numbing solutions. John bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he threw his head back, waiting for the scouring pain to subside as he bled afresh. When he finally raised his head, perspiring from the pain, he saw Dean frozen with his hands under the running tap, watching him with concern, piecing together what he was doing with the scissors. "I'm alright, buddy," he assured Dean, picking up the scissors again. "Don't watch."

Dean obeyed the order, despite his sudden urge to see exactly what his Dad was doing. Without anesthesia, John felt like he was going to pass out with every snip of jagged skin and dying flesh he cut away, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon. Dean learned a few new obscure swear words that John had picked up in the Marines. But he followed orders and never looked up. Not once.

At last John had a clean cut, and once again stanched the flow of blood with his towel. His vision was blackening around the corners, and he wondered how much more he could afford to lose before needing a transfusion. If he had the means to store it, he would have kept a few pints of his own blood on standby for such eventualities.

Dean sheepishly held up the curved threaded needle. "Ready?"

John pivoted so he was straddling the side of the tub, resting his damaged leg on the rim. "You sure you're up to this, Dean?"

"Yeah, Dad. I've practiced on orange skins and everything," said Dean, kneeling beside the tub. John could sense that Dean had been eager for an opportunity to test his skills for real, ever since he had cut himself with a Bowie knife just two weeks ago. John had given him a lecture on both weapons safety and suturing as he stitched the webbing between Dean's thumb and index finger. He preferred to avoid hospitals whenever he knew without a doubt that he could treat something himself. There were always too many questions for his comfort, especially where his kids were involved and people always tended to jump to the wrong conclusion. "Do you have anything to numb it, or...?"

"No," said John, deciding not to tell Dean he had used the last of his Lidocaine supply to numb Dean's hand before he stitched him up. "I don't need anything."

Dean paused over the wound, poised with forceps in one hand and the needle holder and thread in the other. "...But isn't it gonna hurt?"

"No," said John, in an effort to ease Dean's mind. "I can handle it. Now come on. Just like I showed you."

Dean's tongue poked past his lips in concentration as he pinched the skin on either side of the laceration together, drawing it together. He carefully poked the needle through the skin on one side and pulled it through. He looked anxiously up at John. "Did you feel that?"

"No," John lied easily, keeping his face stoic. It was hardly the worst pain the seasoned hunter had ever experienced. "Keep going."

Dean poked the needle through the other side, rolled the thread around the scissors, knotted it securely and cut it. The first stitch was complete. "How's that, Dad?"

"Looks professional, Dean," John praised, smiling proudly at his eldest son. Dean continued doing simple interrupted stitches, spaced every quarter of an inch. Dean then rinsed the repaired laceration with a saline solution and spread antibiotic cream over the closed wound and bandaged it.

John smiled as he watched Dean, even as his son slid in and out of focus. He felt light-headed and his heart was racing. He wasn't sure if his feeling of nausea was from the painkillers or a reaction to the fish tacos he'd from a questionable roadside establishment where the cooks looked just as rough as he did.

"I tried to pick a hunt close to home. A day trip," John found himself saying. "I didn't want Sammy to worry...I had a good lead. I hoped it would be an open and shut case. No complications, home before bedtime. Guess that backfired. Should've known you can never pin down a shifter so easy..."

His head drooped to his chest and he felt Dean shake his shoulders. "Dad—Dad! Are you okay?"

"Yeah," John murmured, coming to. He grudgingly acknowledged he might have been fooling himself in thinking he didn't need professional medical attention. "Need a saline IV...I have one in the kit..."

Dean scrambled for the first aid kit, resting it on the rim of the bathtub and digging through it, easily locating a kit containing one of the clear bags of fluid. He handed it to his father for approval. John took it and inspected the label before tearing open the plastic casing, extracting the IV bag and solution set.

The room spun as he spiked the IV bag with the infusion adapter, primed the drip chamber and used the roller clip to allow the clear fluid to flow through the tubing, working out the air bubbles before clamping it shut, just as the Doc had taught him, and he in turn had showed Dean.

"You remember how to do this?"

Dean nodded eagerly. "Yeah, Dad. I remember."

"Good boy," said John hazily, as Dean helped him insert the catheter into his forearm and tie a plastic tourniquet above his elbow, swabbing rubbing alcohol over his forearm. John made a fist to locate his long, straight cephalic vein, his choice placement for an IV. Dean held his skin taut as John inserted the cannula exactly where John pointed, releasing the needle from the catheter. He waited to see blood and then pushed the needle further in, slowly. The needle completely inserted, he removed the casing and tossed it into the trash can beside the toilet.

John tugged off the tourniquet, guiding Dean's hands as he attached the IV tubing and taped it down. John finished prepping the IV bag before handing it off to Dean. "You know what to do, son." Dean stood up on the edge of the tub, hanging the bag from one of the prongs on the shower curtain rod and removing the clamp. Fluid began to drip down into the tubing. He hopped back down, sitting beside his father on the rim of the tub. John winced as he put his free arm around Dean's shoulders. "Like clockwork. I'd say we make a pretty damn fine team, son." He lowered his arm, rocking forward in pain as the torn skin on his back seared with the movement, straightening up again with a groan of pain as his ribs and the bruised muscles surrounding them complained.

Dean felt like he was in pain just watching his father. He looked at his bare back, pink and raw and sliced every which way, small shards of untempered glass visibly protruding from some of the wounds. "I can pick that glass out with tweezers."

"Fine," said John tightly. "You have enough light?"

"I think so," said Dean, examining his father's back and deciding there was no better word to describe it than 'shredded'. Luckily, none of the cuts looked deep enough to need stitches. "What happened, Dad? It looks like you were thrown through a window!"

"I was," said John darkly. "Then I was dragged over the broken glass."

Dean winced sympathetically. "How'd that happen?"

"Shifter," John grunted. Dean carefully selected the tools he thought he might need and sanitized them as John recounted his night. "I got there, found the shifter's last location by listening to police radio, where a murder fitting its MO was reported—innocent woman tied to chair, throat ripped out—"

Dean interrupted John long enough to warn, "I'm starting now."

John nodded his consent. Trying to keep his hand from shaking, Dean located a fragment of glass, pinched it with the tweezers and slowly pulled the shard out. John let out a gasp of pain that he failed to hold back despite his resolve, not anticipating how much it would hurt. Dean wondered if perhaps it would be less painful for his father if he tried to be quicker next time. The wound started streaming blood again.

"It's okay, Dad...it's okay..." Dean felt slightly panicked; his Dad had already lost so much blood...he grabbed a towel and put pressure over the wound to staunch the bleeding—and that was just the first one. "You're alright. Keep talking. You were saying how you found that woman?"

"Yeah," John bit back his pain as Dean lowered the crimson-stained towel again and went back to work, thankful for his strong constitution when it came to blood and gore. "I got there as fast as I could and scoured the area, saw a double making a run for it...only it ditched its skin before I could catch the son of a bitch. Found a slimy mess in the middle of an alley." He paused, biting down on his knuckles to keep from crying out as Dean dug another piece of glass from his skin. "That's the problem with shifters, son—they can shake you off their scent just like that. _Gah!" _Dean winced apologetically as he yanked out a sizable piece of glass._ "_...Hard to look for a monster in a crowd when they can be anyone. Then, I got lucky—well, that's what I thought at the time..." John trailed off, his eyes unfocused as blood streamed liberally from every site where glass had been extracted.

Dean rushed to pick up the towel again, using it to staunch the bleeding. "Dad," Dean shook his father's shoulders to make him snap out of it, slapping the sides of his face. He had to stay awake. He had to keep him talking. Was that IV drip helping at all yet, or the painkillers? "Then what happened, Dad?" he asked urgently, giving him another shake, wondering if he should call 911 after all.

He saw the tension in his father's clenched jaw, the sweat on his forehead and knew he was holding back all sorts of painful cries to keep from alarming him or waking Sam. Dean however, saw right through his front. He knew this wasn't easy on his father to let him treat him; he had always made for a terrible patient—discharging himself early, refusing to take it easy and outright ignoring any Doctor's orders, so stubborn that he only took painkillers when he was almost passing out from the pain. All along, Dean had tried to be clinical. But he still felt guilty that in the process of helping his father, he was causing him more pain. He knew his Dad had probably been lying about the stitches not hurting, too.

"I was staking out one of the main streets in town, noticed this guy go into a bar, and then leave—twice... Shifter knew I was after it, was hiding out where he knew I was watching and stole some poor sap's face. I took my chances that the second guy was it, and followed him to this abandoned warehouse, way on the outskirts of town in this old industrial area—middle of nowhere. I followed it inside, just like it wanted me to..." John swallowed, and Dean, who had been raptly listening, paused with the tweezers poised over another shard of glass and held his breath, waiting for John to continue on his own. "It was a trap—a sort of nest. For shifters. Makes sense really, how many killings there's been around here...I had just assumed it was one hyperactive shifter. I was outnumbered four to one."

"What did you do, Dad?" Dean avidly watched his father like he was four years old again, listening to his Dad tell him some bedtime story about a valiant warrior singe-handedly taking on an army. "Did you kill them all?"

"Yes."

"But how?" Dean had always known his Dad was the best hunter there was...the amount of gumption it must have took to take out a whole _nest _of shifters by himself... "I thought you only had two silver bullets?"

"More than one way to kill a shifter, Dean," John said with a hint of amusement at Dean's enamored expression. "But, as you can see, they put up a helluva good fight," John let out a ghost of a laugh accompanied by a wince of pain, holding his side. He waved off Dean's concern, continuing his recounting. "The abandoned warehouse they were nesting in must've been storage for a glass window factory at some point, with some of the inventory left behind. Hence, how I was thrown through a window and lived to tell about it. I got smashed into a brick wall, flung down some stairs...but I kept coming back at them, got into some hand-to-hand combat. Killed the first one easily enough when it charged me and I rammed my silver knife into its heart. That just pissed the other ones off. The next two were a bit trickier—shot one in the head at long-range and decapitated the other. Fourth one's to blame for my back...after he dragged me through the glass I rolled over and played dead, lying on top of my gun, waiting for it to get closer...until it was on top of me...then I rolled over and blew it away, shot it right in the heart and had a bonfire."

"Wow," said Dean with reverence, gazing at his father with his usual expression of mixed admiration and respect.

"And then wouldn't you know it, on my way to the car, I was scaling a rusty gate and snagged my leg on a metal barb," John said, indicating the bandaged laceration on his shin. "But hey, considering what I was up against..." he was going to say "I'm lucky to be alive", but thought better of it.

"I'm glad you're okay, Dad," said Dean sincerely. "Well, mostly okay."

"Believe it or not, but I've had worse," John said, thinking explicitly of his injuries in Vietnam that had earned him a Purple Heart, as well as some of his hairier hunts—literally. In his opinion, it was always a good hunt when he didn't get essentially disemboweled.

"That's all of them," said Dean, dropping the last piece of bloodied glass into the small trash can, holding the towel over the spots that were still bleeding. "How do you feel?"

"Much better," said John, smiling as a sudden feeling of euphoria washed over him, the painkillers finally kicking in. Dean once again turned on the bathtub tap and rinsed the wounds clean, dried them and made sure all bleeding had stopped before smearing antibiotic cream over the whole area and taping gauze down over it. As he worked, John said softly, "Dean, d'you remember when you used to play Doctor? You couldn't have been older than three or four. You had this little plastic Doctor's kit with a stethoscope you'd use to listen to my heart. Then you'd take my blood pressure and temperature and diagnose me as being 'sick with everything', give me a shot from a Fisher Price syringe and say I was cured. You remember that?"

"Yeah, I do," said Dean as the memory slowly resurfaced. He hadn't thought about that in years. It was from a memory from another life, when he still had a Mom and a real home—when he was still a kid. "I guess now I'm playing Doctor for real..."

John stared down at his hands. "I guess so. Dean..." he raised his glazed eyes to meet Dean's, noting for the umpteenth time how his eyes were shaped just like Mary's, but the same shade of green as his. "The things I ask of you every day, the way you look out for Sammy...you shouldn't have to take care of me, too."

A silence followed, where Dean shifted awkwardly. "But I want to, Dad."

John faltered. He swallowed hard. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be. You shouldn't have to..." He said with downcast eyes. "You're supposed to be the kid here."

Dean stared at his father, stunned at the words coming out his mouth. It must have been the blood loss or painkillers talking; his Dad hardly ever let him into his thoughts like this, and he _never _admitted any doubts about his parenting. His Dad had to be even worse off than he looked.

Unable to think how else to respond, Dean said modestly, "I still am the kid, Dad... I'm not the one paying for food and motel rooms."

"Neither am I. Mr. Mertz is picking up the tab," John chuckled, and Dean joined in, cognizant of the credit card scams his Dad ran, applying for cards under fake identities. Hunting was often a thankless job, and it rarely ever paid. When it did, John never felt right accepting money from someone he'd just saved, and nine times out of ten he would politely decline. In the times he did take the money, it was because the person was already well-off and his kids desperately needed new shoes, clothes, cavities filled or some other necessity. He still had to earn a living, and John justified the fraudulence of credit card scams to his sons by telling them they were only ruining the credit score of fictional people—that they did a public service that didn't pay and credit card companies, with their ridiculously high interest rates, were monsters of the corporate type.

John considered Dean fondly. He was getting tall, lanky. His baby face had melted away and his features were more defined, and his voice was just starting to drop. Every day he looked more like a man and less like a boy, and John wondered how it was all happening so fast. It seemed like only yesterday Dean was a carefree, laughing child with a mop top of blonde hair and a smile that was almost too big for his face. Today he was a world-wary, guarded adolescent with far too much on his shoulders for one so young.

John wished desperately that he could give Sam and Dean everything they wanted, everything they deserved—a home, their long-ago spent college funds, a regular school with friends, stability, their mother back, their beliefs that the world was a safe place and their futures were secure...but he couldn't. Whatever had killed Mary had stolen that all away, along with every chance of them ever leading a normal life until the thing that killed her was sent back in hell.

Contrary to popular belief, John didn't always go looking for hunts. It seemed that every time he tried to settle down somewhere long enough to provide his sons with some semblance of normalcy, he realized that their next door neighbor was a werewolf or that another one of Sam's teachers was possessed by a demon. _It never ended_. John often felt like his family was marked to be targets for the supernatural. He knew they had to keep moving, he had to keep fighting—or risk losing everything. He was painfully aware that he was sacrificing Sam and Dean's childhoods to make sure they lived to see adulthood, and that guilt tore at him every day. He just hoped that when his boys were grown and looked back and realized what he'd done to them, that they'd be able to forgive him.

"...Dad?"

Dean looked worried. "Dad?" he repeated again, louder this time, "Are you feeling alright?" John wondered how long he had been blankly staring, lost in his own thoughts. What was he feeling? Not pain. At least not physically. He was now experiencing a feeling a downward spiral of dysphoria—mental anguish, shame and regret.

Dean took a step closer. "Dad?" John reached out to Dean, guiding his son towards him. "Sit," he ordered. Dean did as he was told, sitting beside his father, perched on the rim of the tub. "Thank you," said John, quietly. Whether Dean knew it or not, John wasn't just thanking him for his help tonight, but for everything—his strength and resilience in their chaotic and unstable lives, how he had always been John's trusted confidant, support system, the person he turned to when he felt he couldn't trust anyone else. He knew any other kid would crumble under that much pressure, that immense weight of responsibility. But not Dean. His son who was so self-sufficient, so confident that he outwardly seemed to no longer need the same care and reassurances as a child—even if it was just a front, which John wasn't exactly accustomed to providing. Sometimes John needed Dean to be that strong, and to look out for Sam when he couldn't.

John turned his head to the side and smiled at Dean, ran his hand over his short-cropped hair and inclined his head forward, so they were resting forehead to forehead. He closed his eyes and said softly, "You're a good son." In turn, Dean was pleased with the show of affection and approval he so desperately craved.

Hearing a knock on the bathroom door, John lifted his head and faced forward, and heard Sam call in a sleepy voice, "Dean? I thought I heard Dad..."

Dean exchanged a look with John, saw his subtle, resigned nod and called, "Come in, Sammy."

Sam opened the door by degrees, rubbing his fists into his tired eyes. He yawned hugely and stretched, opening one eye and freezing with one arm above his head when he spotted Dean and his father—covered with bruises, pale and shaken, bandaged and bloodied and hooked to an IV. Sam froze as he took in the sight, alarmed at how wretched his father looked. The sweet, sensitive child's eyes filled with tears and his chin wobbled as he cried, "Dad, are you dying?"

"What—Sammy, no, I'm not dy—" John was cut-off mid-sentence, his last syllable ending with an "_Oomph_!" of pain as Sam ran forward and flung himself at John, who had been unprepared for the collision and was nearly knocked backwards into the tub by the unexpected force of the collision. Sam's skinny arms hugged him with all his might, heedless of his bruised ribs, burying his head in his shoulder. John gingerly raised his arms to wrap them around Sam, the raw skin on his shoulders protesting the movement.

"Did the shapeshifter hurt you?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Reluctantly, John admitted, "Yeah, Sammy. It did."

Sam's arms tightened even further around his neck. "And it's dead now? It can't hurt people any more?"

"That's right, son," John responded, his breathing feeling even more constricted from the pressure Sam was unintentionally putting on his windpipe.

Sam sniffed loudly, wiping at his eyes. He pulled away from the hug, as John kept him at arm's length. Sam looked imploringly into his father's eyes, lightly tracing the bruising on his face and the cut by his eye with heartfelt concern, wondering how many times his father had come home beaten and bleeding without him ever knowing, hiding it away so he wouldn't worry. "Do you always get hurt when you hunt monsters?"

"No. Not always," John answered. "I guess you can call this one of my bad days. But I'm going to be fine. Thanks to Dean."

Sam turned and smiled at Dean. Wordlessly, he sifted through the first aid kit, retrieving two butterfly bandages. He tore off the wrappers, carefully peeling the bandages free from their adhesive backs. Seeing what Dean had done, he now felt it was his turn to help care for their father. "Close your eyes," said Sam in a childishly bossy voice. John consented, and Sam took great care in placing the bandages over the cut. "There."

John reached up and felt the neatly placed bandages, smiling warmly at his youngest son. "Thanks, Sammy. I feel better already."

"Dad," said Sam seriously. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore...I want you to stop hunting."

Dean looked uneasily between his father and brother, afraid of an argument breaking out now of all times. "I can't just stop, Sam."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "It's easy. You just don't do it."

John sighed. He was still unaccustomed Sam knowing about his job and having the veil of secrecy lifted, and knew it had been hard for Sam to take everything in. "It's not that simple, Sammy. It's dangerous to just stop hunting...I've heard stories, of people who've quit—who let their guard down...and the past always catches up to them when they least expect it, and they're not ready. It's a hard truth you've got to start learning now, Sam—this life...well, it's impossible to escape from once you're in it."

"And we're hunters...because of what happened to Mom?" asked Sam quietly.

John stared down at his hands. Sam didn't understand the importance of avenging Mary's death yet—not like Dean did. And he didn't want to frighten Sam further by divulging his theory that he hadn't even shared with Dean—that whatever had killed Mary that night had come for him, and was in all likelihood still looking for its original target. John settled on responding with, "You'll understand someday."

Sam huffed. "But Dad, what if something happens to you, too? Then what?"

"Then what nothing," said John dismissively. "Nothing's going to happen to me, Sammy. I'm always going to come back home to you and Dean. And when I'm gone, you'll always have your big brother to look out for you. Right, Dean?"

"Right," Dean answered without hesitation.

Despite his reassurances, John could still see the concern over his well-being that his sons didn't think he was quite out of the woods yet, despite him feeling considerably better. Sam's distress was unconcealed, wearing his heart on his sleeve as always, with the bonus fear that was to be expected of a child who'd recently learned that the monsters from his nightmares were real and abundant. Sam, his moral compass—his kind-hearted, intelligent, compassionate, stubborn and willful child who challenged him every day and tested his patience to its limits, yet he wouldn't change a thing about him.

Dean betrayed no outward signs of his worry, being strong as ever for Sam's sake, but John could see the barely perceptible fear in his eyes that said he still wished his father was in a hospital bed with real doctors looking out for him, on every antibiotic known to man. Dean, his second in command, his son who had been in hunting boot camp since he was six when he began learning how to field strip a Browning. Dean was his rock—loyal, responsible, obedient, respectful, trustworthy—in many regards, possessing every good quality a man could ask for in a son. John couldn't be more proud of his boy if he tried, and he hoped that he never took Dean for granted. He was his family's keeper, fighting so hard to keep them all together, terrified of anything happening to split his family up further since his mother's murder.

For everything John thought of his sons—the high regard he held them both in—right now he saw them for what they were: two scared boys, who were afraid for him. Afraid of losing him. John was at a loss for what else he could do or say to reassure them that he was going to be alright.

That was when he heard Mary's voice in his head. "_Just be their father. You'll know what they need."_

Mary was right. She was always right.

John smiled like he didn't have a care in the world—saw the effect the simple act had on chasing some of the gloom from his sons faces. "Seriously, guys. I'm going to be okay. C'mere." John opened his arms wide, beckoning his sons to him and hugging them both tightly. "I love you boys. You know that, right?" John couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing that he didn't express the sentiment as often as he should. He felt a head nod against either one of his shoulders. He didn't need any responses in return—tonight, his sons had already shown him the feeling was mutual. Expressing love through actions rather than words was far more the Winchester way.

John held the three-way embrace a moment longer, drawing back after what he felt was an appropriate amount of time for two boys who typically could never hold still for more than a few moments. John stood slowly, and felt Sam and Dean immediately reach out to steady him on either side.

"Thanks, boys," he said gratefully, removing the needle in his arm from the now empty IV and draping an arm around either of their shoulders. "Come on. I think we can still catch a few more hours of sleep before the sun comes up."

"Okay, Dad," Sam and Dean chorused, as the three of them went to get some much-needed rest.

THE END

...

AN: Thanks for the wait, guys—this was a surprisingly hard fic to write and it took me a long time to come up with an ending I was happy with. I hope it was worth the wait!

I tried to be as accurate as possible with all the medical stuff. I did not have a beta, but I researched extensively on google and messaged my friend who's a nurse back and forth. So if anyone spotted any medical mistakes, I apologize, and I tried!

And yes, John probably could have used a Doctor, but he's going to be just fine. He's tough. Still, I'm sure he didn't sleep easy that night...! Also, I explained the scar on John's face that Jeffrey Dean Morgan has in real life. In case anyone didn't know, Jeff got that scar when he was riding his motorcycle in LA and saw a guy beating up his girlfriend in an alley. He tried to intervene and help the woman, and for his efforts she hit him in the face with a broken bottle and the couple ran off together. No good deed goes unpunished :(

The bit with Sgt. Dunn and never leaving a man behind...yeah, I may have been thinking of Lt. Dan in Forest Gump...

I hope you enjoyed! Reviews make me want to write more... ;)


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